Story of a Street Kid
by Celestra
Summary: Hector Zeroni doesn't like answering questions, and he's had the nickname 'Zero' even before he came to Camp Green Lake. And now we know why . . . WARNING: Non-descriptive mentions of rape and some harsh language.


Story of a Street Kid

Written by Celestra (AKA El S)

Author's Notes: If you were to ask me where I got the idea for this story, I couldn't really tell you. Some might say it has to do with how fangirls like to torture their favorite characters, and normally I might agree, but this isn't really the case here. I've always been intrigued by how Zero has been able to survive living in the streets, which I may assure you is very difficult. Zero's past in the streets has endless story possibilities; one such example can be found in my short story _Smart Kid_. (shh, of COURSE I'm not plugging..) I believe this is more of an anecdote on how Zero may have lived, and it also serves to show my theory on why exactly Zero dislikes answering questions so much and where he first got the nickname Zero.

Fans of Zero, please don't flame me. I enjoy his character very much, but with him, ideas for dark stories are abundant.

Plug Time: Please go read my other Holes stories, particularly _Wetness In Camp Green Lake?_ I guarantee you'll at least quirk your eyebrows and question the author's sanity ;) And please review. Reviews are like a drug for me, I need them, lol.

Oh, and if you want to join a Holes RPG, type http: s6 . invisionfree the holes rpg without the spaces into the search bar. 's been bad about linking lately o.0

Special thanks to Ky the Irish Pikey who helped with this and let me bounce my ideas off her. You rock!

Disclaimer: If I owned Holes, Mary Lou would be immortalized in the stars forever and she wouldn't have been shot in the head. And we all know how that turned out . . .

Summary: Hector Zeroni doesn't like answering questions, and he's had the nickname 'Zero' even before Camp Green Lake. And now we know why.

Warnings: This is a dark fic with mentions of rape and language. If you can't handle it, this is your chance to leave. I don't want to receive angry letters from parents regarding how I've twisted your minds, okay?

All Hector had ever wanted was a meal. A simple meal, and perhaps a warm place to escape to for a mere half hour.

He honestly couldn't believe that when he had first found the five-dollar bill and seen the brightly lit restaurant down the block that he had received a godsend. Oh no, it hadn't been a godsend at all. A demon in a jester's cap must have been laughing when he picked the sodden bill up.

The warmth of the restaurant had embraced Hector as he entered . . . _Embracing . . . what an ironic choice of words,_ the boy had thought later.

Naturally, he found he couldn't afford very much with only five dollars. Hector wondered if the forlornness in his face had been what brought John Gallish out from behind the counter, or if he saw what Gallish referred to as his 'potential' even from afar.

Hector hadn't known that the man owned the restaurant at the time. All he knew was that a kind stranger had offered to pay for his meal, and Hector supposed that the fact that the man was handsome and all-smiles had helped lower his defenses. If he had known how to mentally slap himself, he would have done it. Living in the streets where everything and anything could be a hazard should have taught him to be less naïve.

When Gallish offered Hector the proposition to have work and boarding below the restaurant, the alarm bells in Hector's head had long since been muted. John Gallish could charm the pants off someone . . . Another ironic statement.

John Gallish hadn't lied, but his truth had been one so wrapped up in flimsy fabrications and vagueness that Hector didn't know how to name this pit he was falling into until he hit the bottom. The work and boarding was below the restaurant, yes, but in no way were they associated with the eatery up top. John Gallish was certainly the reincarnation of Eve's snake.

Hector found it hard to believe that law-abiding people could enjoy their meals upstairs with no knowledge of the underage whorehouse under it. Oh yes, when Hector had found out what exactly Gallish was employing him for, he had kicked and screamed and done everything in his power to try to escape. But in the end, Gallish was a large, strong man with a motive, and Hector had always been small for his thirteen years, and with nowhere to run to, he made for easy prey.

From that day on, John Gallish had instantly changed in Hector's mind. The transition was smooth like snake skin, much like Gallish himself with his fanged smiles and fork-tongued words.

Hector wasn't Gallish's only 'toy.' There were twelve other youths besides him, all procured the same way – teenage gutter-rats with nowhere else to go, manipulated by motive and desire thinly veiled by a pretense of kindness.

Then came the part where Gallish had shown Hector '_what was expected of him_.' Oh God, how it hurt. He didn't even know it was possible to hurt on the inside. He thought that as long as he had his clothes on, Gallish couldn't get at him, but he had been wrong . . . He had never really grasped the concept until that day that his clothes were only made up of threads put together, and that thread was so easily cut and broken.

He was only thirteen; he didn't want this, didn't need it . . .

Being naturally quiet from habit, his screams had seemed especially loud. He had begged and pleaded that he wasn't ready, that he couldn't do it, but it only provoked an unnatural light in Gallish's eyes that made his desire keener.

After Gallish had been done testing his new merchandise, he had left Hector alone in his new room with a new set of clothes. Hector remembered throwing up from the sheer pain – it felt like fire was ravaging his body when in fact only a mere mortal had been the one to do so. He had sat, huddled in a protective fetal position, alone with his thoughts, remembering things that never should have happened . . .

Hector threw up a second time when he sickeningly realized his pain only fueled Gallish's pleasure, and a third as he felt a shudder gently caress his spine as Gallish had . . . he was dirty, contaminated with the being of a man with no soul inside of him.

Worse still was later on, when Gallish had come back and taunted his new plaything, making him relive everything and questioning how he had liked it. "How did you like me inside you? How much longer do you think I can last next time? Didn't you love how it felt as I made you a man?"

Gallish did that every time he used him, for he knew it made the boy squeamish. He loved hearing about the actions he performed, and took delight in questioning about uncomfortable details and making suggestions that always heightened Hector's fear. Even thinking about answering the questions made Hector feel ill, and always he tried to remain silent and shut out the intruding thoughts. But for John Gallish, silence was the wrong answer, and he always let Hector know it in some unpleasant way.

It got to the point where Gallish would interrogate Hector about the other 'clients' who forced themselves upon him. Always Hector resisted to answer that which revolted him and threatened to make him relive the ghosts of touches - except when the pain was too great and he fell to his knees, screaming the answers Gallish wanted to hear and begging to be left alone. John Gallish always went away smirking as he set about making another one of his playthings' lives miserable.

Hector never knew the names of any of Gallish's other underage whores for two main reasons. The first was that he didn't want to talk to them and see himself reflected back – a juvenile, unwilling toy to those who would seek to augment their own satisfaction at any cost and wouldn't be given the chance to amount to anything else. The second reason was because Gallish never referred to his whores by their names. No, John Gallish couldn't be that civil. He labeled them only by the numbers they had come to him by.

As Hector was the thirteenth street kid to have the misfortune of coming across John Gallish, that was what he was called. Gallish called him his 'Lucky Thirteen' because Hector quickly became popular among his clients, as they found his milk-chocolate skin, ruffled cinnamon curls, and exotic dark eyes endearing.

When Hector found out that he was merely a number as far as Gallish was concerned, he became as affronted as someone in his position could be. But taking it up with Gallish had far worse repercussions than he had predicted. Oh, he remembered well . . .

_Hector wiped his face angrily as Gallish crowed about the money he was making in. "You do bring in such a profit, my Lucky Thirteen," the man smirked._

_Hector scowled. This man had taken him, body and soul, and all he was to him was a number . . . a random, insignificant number . . . _

_"Don't call me that," the boy stated, resisting the urge to allow anger to contort his face. Never show an enemy your weaknesses . . ._

_"Pardon?" The man's voice was quizzical, but his face wore an ugly look. Hector recognized the danger signs and backed away, but continued to speak. _

_"You may be able to do whatever you want to me because I can't stop you, but I am _not_ a number!"_

_John Gallish hissed, reminding Hector more of a snake than any other time . . . and there had been many. "That's where you're wrong, boy. You _are_ just a number, and let me tell you why. Do you have any idea how many other little whores there are _just like you_?! Hell, I myself have thirteen of you little shits! Since you all have the same one purpose, don't fuck it up!" Gallish paused. "Rather, do fuck it up. That's what you're here for, after all."_

_"We're people! Not numbers you can call whenever you want us!"_

_Gallish punched Hector hard. Not across the face, never across the face. Clearly visible bruises weren't appetizing to the clients._

_"Shut up and be a good little fuck, Thirteen," Gallish breathed, eyes glinting. _

_"I am NOT just whore number THIRTEEN!" Hector screamed, gasping as he was hit in the stomach a second time. _

_"No, you're not . . ." Gallish agreed, surprisingly. "A good whore should know their place. Obviously you aren't good enough even for that."_

_Hector frowned slightly, wondering where this could be headed._

_"You might be a good fuck, but you're not worth anything. None of you are. You're all just whores, good for just one thing, and too many to even count."_

_"No, no . . ." Hector moaned._

_"Yes!" Gallish said, his eyes lighting up malevolently. "You're just a zero among zeroes, aren't you?"_

_Hector tried to interrupt, but Gallish just kept going. "No one cares about you, no one wants you for anything but their own needs, and you try to tell me you're not just a number? I don't think so, boy. No one's coming to save you because no one knows or cares that you're here . . . there's too many brats just like you. That's the story of a street kid."_

_Hector's mind was in turmoil. 'Oh God . . . he's right, he's right! There's too many people just like me and no one's coming to save me . . . is this how I'm going to grow up?'_

_"Now, _Zero_," Gallish paused, smirking at the new name and the loss of hope etched in the boy's face. "This whole endeavor has upset me. Why don't you come here and do what you do best? I need to relieve some stress . . ."_

_And the boy looked up, terrified, as the monster that had enslaved both his mind and body stalked closer . . . _

While Hector had gotten Gallish to stop calling him Thirteen, he hadn't improved his situation at all because Gallish had started referring to him as 'Zero' to his clients, a cruel reminder to agonize the boy who had attempted to stand up to him. At least the number thirteen had some kind of value, but zero is nothing at all.

After that, Hector kept all his thoughts to himself, but the damage was done.

Those that came to use Hector's body found it amusing that Gallish called him Zero, and made comments that hurt worse than the nickname itself.

"Zero, eh? Nah, I'd say this tight li'l thing is worth at least a dime or so . . ."

"Must be because of the shape his eyes go when he sees what's we're gonna give 'im!"

Over time the nickname stung much less, because Hector quickly realized that he must have some worth if they kept coming back for him. However, that wasn't an altogether comforting thought.

Then came the day that changed everything. One of the oldest of the underage whores was just . . . gone. Quite by accident, Hector overheard Gallish and one of her 'regulars' conversing . . . She had been getting too old to be part of his enterprise, and thus had been disposed of. How, Hector shuddered to think about. Half a second later, Hector realized that the same fate would befall him one day . . . and no one would know or mourn. His clients would find another of the many whores . . .

Hector received a rare chance that night . . . a blessing disguised as a curse. A new client had come to see what was available and was intoxicated by Hector's appearance. The man was large and charged with negative energy – a fight with his wife and left him with some sexual tension, as Hector had found out. The boy's eyes closed with fear at the idea of a man so large and angry using him to release his pressure.

The man was really getting into it when suddenly a sickening crunch sounded, and Hector felt the weight more heavily suffocate him and heard none of the sounds of satisfaction associated with release. Tentatively, Hector attempted to push the mass off him, and found that he was presented with no resistance. Wriggling out from under him, he realized the man was unconscious, and the crunch had been him hitting his head on the headboard of the bed. Hector could see blood trickling from a wound already half the size of a goose egg.

An identifiable feeling coursed through Hector's small body. Was it . . . hope? The door was unlocked, and the man was in no position to stop him from leaving . . . and Gallish wouldn't be expecting the man to be done for another twenty minutes, at least.

Very quietly and very slowly, Hector, now clothed, opened the door and peered down the hallway. It was deserted, but he could hear the sounds of one-sided passion coming from the other rooms of his fellow prisoners. Nodding silently to himself, Hector tiptoed down the hall until he came to the stairs that led upstairs to the restaurant. He could hear the clatter of plates and cutlery and the chatter of people's voices and deduced it must be dinnertime, when the restaurant was most full.

When he made it to the top of the stairs, he pushed the door open and immediately ducked low, staying close to the walls and the shadows. As he came to the main eating area, he debated whether to sneak subtly out or get out as fast as he could.

His question was answered for him as one little girl sitting at a table with her family pointed out "a strange boy that came out of nowhere!" With that, Hector made a mad dash to the door. Some of Gallish's staff members attempted to grab him, but they couldn't catch Hector's lithe sprinting form or stop the adrenaline rushing through Hector's body at the thought of being free of the man who had made his life a living hell.

Hector's shoulder smashed into the door as he knocked it open, almost bowling over an elderly couple, and he was out, running into the gathering darkness, and never looking back once.

Hector regained some of his confidence after living on his own in the streets for five months, but his experience with John Gallish had definitely changed him. He despised answering questions because it reminded him too much of Gallish's twisted interrogations, and while he definitely disliked the nickname Zero, it didn't sting so much when recalled that "just another zero" escaped right under Gallish's nose. He was going to try his hardest to discontinue his own part in 'the story of a street kid,' as Gallish had put it.

Hector's life changed once more, but that's another story. That one begins with Hector walking into a homeless shelter because he needed some new shoes . . .

A/N: I'm not sadistic or evil, I swear. Even I'm surprised at what I wrote. I did this because it actually happens to be a common occurrence for kids who live in the streets, especially in metropolitan areas, and I wanted to make this clear. This is also a product of my loathing of pedophiles. To snuff out a child's innocence is a heinous crime, especially for one's own satisfaction.

Kindly review, and flames that have no point will be snickered at.


End file.
